Now Tell Me You Love Me
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". Boyd keeps a promise and Grace unwillingly realises the past isn't entirely a closed book. T for language. Complete. Enjoy!
1. The News Delivered

**DISCLAIMER: **I own nothing.

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**Now Tell Me You Love Me**

by Joodiff

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**1: The News Delivered**

It's just a little past five in the afternoon when one of the nurses pokes her head around the door and announces brightly, "Doctor Foley? Just to let you know, Mr Boyd's here to take you home."

Grace quickly smiles her thanks and stands up. She's been ready for the last half-hour, but Boyd isn't late, she's just more than usually impatient to be out of the clinic. The few things she's brought with her – a couple of books, some magazines and the tiny, but bizarrely complicated MP3 player that was a recent gift from Eve – are already in her bag, and all she has to do is slip into her coat.

She leaves the room swiftly and gratefully, and somewhere deep inside her the tiny, fragile hope that she will never see it, or another room like it, ever again is finally becoming something more than a desperate fantasy. Three full cycles of chemotherapy and thus countless hours of watching the poison being pumped steadily into her veins have finally culminated in this – the very last treatment session. Grace knows from bitter experience that tomorrow she will start to feel ill, and that the few days after will become a hideous torment of fatigue and nausea, but at last she is able to look forward to the reality of a final barrage of tests and their subsequent results. The ones she genuinely believes will confirm that she has managed to beat the malevolent curse that seems to have been stalking her for longer than she cares to think about.

Boyd is standing at the nurses' station talking to an incredibly statuesque and well-endowed staff nurse, and Grace can't help smiling wryly to herself as she notices the way even the very youngest, prettiest female nurses seem to be unconsciously gravitating towards him. When he wants to, he can have that effect on women. He's hardly a young man, but he's tall, broad-shouldered and good-looking, and when he's away from the stresses and responsibilities of his job he's eminently capable of a quiet, easy charm that she knows from experience can be absolutely devastating when coupled to the slow, gentle smile that very few women seem to be immune to. Even if Grace knows full well that he's simply being a good friend and a concerned colleague, it's still very good for her battered ego to see the only half-hidden envy in the younger, brighter female eyes around her as she walks towards him.

She wonders, sometimes, if Boyd is really as utterly oblivious to such blatant female one-upmanship as he generally appears. Perhaps, perhaps not. It's entirely possible that he's fully well aware, and that's part – if only a very small part – of why he's here. Maybe he somehow understands that it's very good for her bruised morale and self-esteem to be courteously squired around by a mature, well-dressed and unquestionably attractive man. Grace doesn't know – doesn't think she'll ever know. All she really knows is that through all the long, difficult months, Peter Boyd has selflessly put himself at her disposal as much and as often as physically possible, and when he really hasn't been able to oblige, he's sent Spencer, Eve or even Kat to collect her from the gruelling treatment sessions. It's entirely down to him that she hasn't left a single appointment alone.

His gaze settles on her, and Grace sees the way he instantly and automatically dismisses everyone and everything else from his mind. The intense focus won't last, she knows that, but for those few precious seconds she's the only thing in his world, and that's more than simply flattering, it's incredibly humbling. Quietly, he asks her, "Okay?"

She nods wearily, and it's the truth. She's tired but she doesn't feel bad at all. Not yet. It takes time for the worst effects of the toxic drugs to get a firm grip on her body. Boyd takes her bag from her without another word, waits patiently as she confirms dates and times with the staff nurse, and then he gallantly offers her his arm. Grace takes it without thinking, gladdened by both his steady, reassuring presence and by the simple joy of human contact.

They walk through the clinic together, and she's incredibly grateful, as ever, that he automatically slows his pace to match hers. The silence between them is calm and reflective. Boyd has clearly learnt that it takes her a few minutes to adjust, and he simply waits for her to speak. Eventually, she does so, admitting aloud, "I can't believe it's finally over."

"You're on the home straight now," Boyd agrees, sounding deliberately nonchalant.

Grace knows what he's not saying. There will be many long unpleasant days of sickness before she starts to feel better again, and even then, there are still countless hurdles to overcome. But she doggedly holds onto the carefully-chosen words of her doctors and onto her own stubborn belief that she has finally reached the beginning of the end.

-oOo-

Eventually, she's proved right in her tenacious optimism. The cancer has not just retreated, it has apparently fled the battleground altogether. Oh, she is soberly warned that there will be many further check-ups, that she needs to remain vigilant and to listen carefully to medical advice, but she barely listens. All Grace can think about is that she's fought the hideous, terrifying demon and won. That suddenly the future isn't a dark, claustrophobic and frightening place, but an open book with plenty of pages left to fill exactly as she pleases. And the joy and relief must show clearly on her face, because when she steps out of the oncologist's office, several weeks after the end of her final treatment cycle, she immediately sees it reflected back at her as Boyd gets to his feet and starts to grin like a madman. She can almost see the weight being physically lifted from his shoulders, but even so she doesn't expect him to grab her around the waist and swing her off her feet, still grinning from ear-to-ear. It's definitely an unbecoming situation for a woman of her age to find herself in, but she's actually far too happy to care. Though she's distinctly relieved when he puts her down again.

"No more slacking for you, Doctor Foley," he says, a triumphant note in his voice, "I expect you back at your desk full-time as of next week."

Grace is well-aware that he's joking. He's given her complete freedom to choose her own hours over the last innumerable hard months. And she's incredibly grateful to him for his unusual sensitivity in somehow understanding, without needing to be told, that banning her from work completely would simply have been counter-productive. She has no idea how he's managed to justify not bringing in a temporary replacement for her, but she strongly suspects the kind of bureaucratic sleight of hand he's very, very good at. Boyd is an unrivalled master of the dark art of rule-bending, after all.

It occurs to Grace, a little late, that even if her feet are firmly back on the floor, she's still caught in a fierce embrace that seems to have become entirely mutual in an unconscious, spontaneous sort of way. And that makes her suddenly wildly happy, too, because not only is it tangible proof of all the broken fences they've slowly and carefully mended between them, but it's the first time in years that there's been no kind of hidden agenda on either side. Maybe the bad times – and there have been a lot of those – are finally over. It's the easiest, most natural thing in the world to stand up on her tiptoes and kiss him gently on the cheek in a gesture of gratitude and friendship – and not feel something tear bitterly at her heart as she does so.

They walk out of the clinic together, and it's a surprisingly warm, sunny April day. A good day to be alive.

Grace slips her arm comfortably through his, and as they walk towards his car, she slyly says, "I seem to remember a promise someone accidentally made in an unwary moment…"

Boyd glances at her, raises his eyebrows slightly and simply replies, "Oh, I always keep my promises, Grace. You should know that by now."

-oOo-

_cont..._


	2. The Promise Kept

**2: The Promise Kept**

"Boyd's _really_ paying for all this?" Kat asks, wide-eyed, and Grace is highly amused by the strident note of disbelief in the younger woman's voice.

It's Spencer who dryly replies, "Don't feel too sorry for him, he's got to be on at least eighty grand a year."

"Jealous, much?" Eve teases, but with a broad grin.

He smirks back. "Does it show?"

Easy banter. It's a genuine pleasure to listen to, Grace realises. Since news of her illness started to spread she's become too used to stilted, awkward conversations, and people being far too cautious and conscientious about what they think they should and shouldn't say in her presence. Except for Boyd, of course, but that's always been a given. And just as she's about to speak, the man himself comes pacing back towards them, looking impossibly debonair in his sleek dinner-jacket and black bowtie. Spencer may very well be similarly attired, but somehow he's dismally failing to cut quite the same sort of effortless dash as his boss – and from the gloomy look on his face, he definitely knows it, too. Spencer's palpable gloom visibly increases when Boyd ends up with Grace on one arm and Eve on the other, and he's left with Kat, who's clearly made a huge effort for the evening and yet still manages to look rather more like an uncomfortable tomboy than an effortless _femme fatale_.

The big, expensive hotel's restaurant is… big and expensive. The sort of place where any mention of something as vulgar as money would be crass in the extreme. The eclectic, sophisticated menu doesn't deign to advertise prices, and Grace becomes increasingly certain that Boyd is going to be extremely lucky if he doesn't end the night with close on a four-figure bill for the five of them. But a promise is a promise, and as Spencer has acerbically pointed out, their chief officer is pulling in an experienced Detective Superintendent's healthy salary, plus London weighting, plus whatever additional remuneration he may or may not be getting for commanding the Cold Case Unit. However one looks at it, Boyd is hardly living on the breadline.

All the other diners seated at the tables ranged around the big opulent room are similarly attired in full evening dress, but Grace barely notices. She's far more captivated by her own companions, from Boyd looking striking and dapper in his impeccably-tailored dinner-jacket to Eve elegantly attired in something dark, flowing and impossibly gorgeous that seems to shimmer every time she moves. And tonight they are not just her colleagues, Grace reflects; not even just her friends. Tonight they are undeniably her surrogate family, because they have all stood loyally beside her through possibly the hardest time she's ever known. And tonight she wholeheartedly loves each and every one of them for it.

They're well into the main course before Grace, who's been sitting next to Boyd the entire evening, suddenly notices his cufflinks. Heavy, simple cufflinks that gleam in that restrained but unquestionably expensive way that's characteristic of antique gold. She remembers – quite clearly given the outrageous price tag – impulsively buying them for him. A ridiculously extravagant birthday present bought entirely on a foolish whim by a woman quietly and desperately in love with a man so obtuse, so utterly oblivious that sometimes just his presence in the same room could make her bitterly, pointlessly angry. And now, years later, Grace doesn't know whether to laugh or cry at the shocking extent of her past folly as he reaches out for his glass and the gold at his wrist shines for everyone to see. But the clawing pain and frustration faded a long time ago, and tonight she's able to simply smile wryly instead of wincing.

Conversation flows surprisingly easily. Work is touched on briefly and only in the most general of terms, and that unaccountably pleases her. It's been a long, long time since they've all been together in anything remotely like a social setting – so long, in fact, that it's something Kat has never experienced, and accordingly she seems abnormally subdued. Grace rightly suspects rightly that despite having been part of their unit for more than a year, Kat still feels very much an outsider, particularly on a highly unusual evening like this one. She has been automatically included, naturally, but she doesn't share the same colourful history, doesn't really understand all the subtle nuances in all the different and complicated relationships around the table.

Suddenly feeling genuinely sorry for her, Grace addresses her directly, says, "Kat, why don't you ask Boyd how he ended up as a detective?"

Across the table, Spencer starts to grin conspiratorially. It's not a particularly funny story, but it's certainly an amusingly implausible one. He immediately encourages, "Yeah, go on, Kat. Ask him."

There's a charged moment of anticipatory silence. Kat looks uncomfortable, glances around the table as if suspecting she is being deliberately set up for something by her mischievous colleagues. Grace shoots a quick, meaningful look at Boyd. He raises one eyebrow very slightly in response, more than a touch quizzical, but he obediently takes his cue. He leans back in his chair and says languidly, "Go ahead. I won't bite."

"Probably," Eve supplies helpfully.

Kat is plainly embarrassed by all the sudden attention, but she's unquestionably brave. With more than a hint of defiance she boldly says, "All right. How did you become a detective, sir?"

"By complete accident," Boyd says, deliberately laconic. He picks up his glass, sips his drink for a moment, and then continues in a more reflective tone, "About five minutes after I graduated from Hendon I realised just how much I hated being out on the beat. I swore then and there that once I'd done my time as a probationer I'd take the very first opportunity that came my way to get away from pavement-pounding in all bloody weathers."

"Which unfortunately just happened to be Thames Division," Spencer informs Kat, still grinning. At her bemused look, he adds meaningfully, "What's now the MSU…?"

The resulting look of astonishment and disbelief on Kat's face is priceless. "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Boyd affirms, still casually lounging back in his chair. "Eight week training course and then in at the deep end. Literally."

Kat still seems highly sceptical, and Grace doesn't blame her. Looking at him, it does seem a highly unlikely tale, after all. And no less true because of it, she knows, having had legitimate cause to read Boyd's extensive personnel file on more than one occasion. Sounding wary and deeply incredulous, Kat says, "You're kidding me, right? _You_ were a police diver?"

"Back when there were still plesiosaurs in the Thames," Eve mutters loudly in Spencer's ear.

Boyd pointedly ignores the sardonic comment and nods solemnly. "I was. For three long, miserable years in my twenties. Body and vehicle recovery; evidence searches, close confinement work – you name it, I did it. Freezing my bloody balls off in icy mud and water at all hours of the day and night. As soon as I could, I took the very first chance to transfer out – got accepted as a TDC at Limehouse."

"Frying pan to fire, if you ask me," Spencer comments with a pained grimace, and Grace assumes he is remembering his own time as a Trainee Detective Constable.

"Maybe, but I soon found out that it suited me, and the rest, as they say, is history," Boyd counters with a slight shrug. His dark gaze settles intently on Kat. "Sometimes, you see, you have to be brave enough and honest enough to admit to yourself that things just aren't working out the way you expected. Sometimes you simply have to come to terms with the unpleasant fact that what may have initially looked like the best opportunity in the world just isn't the _right_ one. For whatever reason."

Grace knows what he's tacitly saying, and she can see that their younger colleague knows, too. And, exactly as Grace silently predicts, Kat doesn't look stung or upset. No, Kat looks perfectly calm and there's a trace of respect and grateful relief in her eyes; for the first time that evening, as the conversation naturally turns and moves on, she seems to relax. Boyd is not considering dismissing her from the unit – Grace knows he still thinks Katrina Howard will excel in the CCU if she allows herself the chance to do so – but he is making it known that he's prepared to give her the opportunity to leave of her own accord with her head held high. Should she choose to. And Grace thinks she probably will. Not immediately, perhaps, but soon.

It's just a little thing in a flowing river of conversation, but it stays with Grace as the evening wears on. It's not the exact words that stay, or even the general topic – it's something far more important. The unexpected realisation that Boyd, who has always been so volatile, so driven, and so committed to staying firmly in control of everything, appears to have finally learnt, at least in some small way, how to let go of things – _some_ things anyway – before they get too far under his skin. It may be just a little thing, but in Boyd, it's a very significant change, and one that Grace finds she is fiercely proud of.

It's taken her years of hard work, she thinks ironically, but maybe she's finally succeeded in knocking some of the rougher edges and sharper corners off the tough old warhorse after all.

-oOo-

When they all finally adjourn to the hotel's most exclusive bar it's very late, and after the first round of drinks Grace realises that she has still seen no sign of money changing hands. If the bar bill is being added to the restaurant tab, Peter Boyd is definitely going to be a much poorer man by the morning, but there's no indication that he's at all bothered about it. Then, he's always been the kind of boss who isn't afraid to put his hand in his own pocket. More than one CCU Christmas party has become joyously over-riotous after Boyd has quietly disappeared off home leaving a couple of hundred quid behind the bar. It's just the way he does things. He expects absolute loyalty and absolute commitment, and he's a notoriously hard man to please, but for all his foibles he understands the immense power of even the smallest of goodwill gestures towards his staff.

Eve is the first to leave, saying her goodbyes before kissing Grace lightly on the cheek and murmuring archly, "Enjoy."

The deliberate aside further fuels Grace's burgeoning suspicion that something untoward is definitely going on that she doesn't know about. And when Spencer leaves, forcibly dragging a strangely rather unwilling Kat in his wake, the dark suspicion becomes even stronger. She looks at Boyd, leaning nonchalantly against the bar, and she bluntly asks, "All right – just what are you up to?"

He chuckles good-humouredly. "When did you become so cynical?"

"I'm not at all cynical," Grace tells him promptly, "I just know you _far_ too well."

"Just finish your drink, Grace. There's no Machiavellian agenda."

She knows she's not going to be able to prise the details out of him. Whatever he's up to will doubtless become clear in the fullness of time. And he's categorically up to something because Grace is quite certain it's not just the unrivalled success of the evening so far that's making him look so incredibly pleased with himself. There's definitely a touch of smugness about him as he gazes placidly back at her. Well, she's far more patient than he is, and she can easily wait until whatever it is becomes far too much for him. Boyd may be as stubborn as the proverbial mule, but almost a decade of comradeship has proved beyond any doubt that in any such childish battle of wills she will always win. Eventually. Patting his arm affectionately, she says, "Thank you for tonight, Boyd."

"I keep my promises."

"Yes you do," Grace agrees. She watches him for a few moments as he turns to signal the barman for a refill and she wonders why their relationship away from work couldn't always have been this easy. But in her heart, she knows the answer. Too many undercurrents, too many things left unspoken. And maybe it's simply because Boyd isn't the only one who's learnt that sometimes it's better to just let go that they now can actually be in each other's company without drawing blood at the slightest provocation. It might be the wine talking, or the wine may just be an excuse, but either way she finds herself saying, "You've been such a good friend to me."

"Spare me," he says, turning to face her again. "I'll willingly wine and dine you, Grace, but I absolutely draw the line at wading through a quagmire of sentimentality for you."

She laughs. "Poor Boyd. Even after all this time, you still can't bear any hint of the 'touchy-feely' thing, can you?"

Boyd growls somewhere low in his throat, but it's a half-hearted sort of warning. "Oh, shut up and finish your bloody drink."

"When I do, are you going to tell me exactly why you're looking so insufferably smug…?"

-oOo-

_cont..._


	3. The Pain Exposed

**3: The Pain Exposed**

So here it is, the final part of Boyd's master plan. A luxury hotel room in a luxury hotel in the very centre of London. Which, Grace feels, might have been entirely too predictable had it not turned out to be _two_ rooms instead of just one. For while she finds herself in the largest, most expensive and sumptuous room she thinks she's ever seen, Boyd is at the far end of the long, plush corridor in a room that's hardly basic, but doesn't remotely compare to hers. Eve's part in the subterfuge becomes clear when Grace finds a neatly-packed suitcase full of her own things duly waiting for her. Someone, maybe Spencer, maybe not, has sprung the lock on Grace's front door in the short time between her leaving home and the others arriving at the hotel, giving Eve unrestricted access to her home and her possessions. And she knows full well the guilty party wasn't Boyd, because he was in the back of the taxi that collected her.

Grace sits on the edge of the huge bed and looks at the room, at the huge bouquet of flowers, at the suitcase of her things. She thinks about the evening and of how very special it has been to her; how much it means to her. She thinks about the unprecedented amount of trouble Boyd's gone to for her, and that's what finally brings tears to her eyes. They are not tears of happiness, but tears of sudden, bitter anger and regret. Because at heart he's such a good man, but so very, very blind. It hurts unbearably to finally realise that she's been deliberately fooling herself for far longer than she ever wants to admit; to realise that despite all the walls she's laboriously built against her unrequited feelings, she's actually even more in love with Peter Boyd now than she ever was. The exposed truth is raw and indescribably painful, and when the inevitable quiet tap on the door finally comes she is already crying without reserve.

Typically, Boyd doesn't wait long for the invitation that's never issued. After a second knock, he simply bowls straight into the room still looking insouciant and faintly smug. But he immediately stops dead in his tracks and simply stares at her, his expression changing rapidly to complete bewilderment and then to deep concern. He inquires, "Grace…?"

All she can do is bravely attempt to defend herself against everything that hurts so very much. There's no other choice. It's difficult, almost impossible, but somehow she swallows hard, forces a wan smile and manages, "Sorry… just a little overcome by everything, that's all…"

Boyd can be remarkably obtuse. But unfortunately not on this occasion. He says, "Bullshit. What's the matter? Grace…?"

He's already starting to bristle on her behalf, and that hurts her too, because he's so fiercely protective, and yet so extraordinarily oblivious to the real cause of her tears. Even after such a long association he doesn't seem to be fully aware of just how well she understands him and his motives. He's a thoroughly alpha male, and no-one ever gets away with trespassing on his territory. He'd valiantly tear anyone apart for her without a single thought and they both know it – but entirely for his own reasons, none of which have anything to do with all the pain and misery Grace has been desperately pretending belong firmly in the past. There's nothing she can say to him. Nothing at all. The old cliché is right – love really does hurt. She is not by any means a weak woman – not at all – but she's suffered far too stress and trauma just recently and all the contradictory emotions of the night are simply too much for her battered defences. Defeated, she puts her head back in her hands and continues to cry, fully well aware that he won't be able to cope with it at all.

She waits for the predictable loud bang of the door as he exits. Few men can slam a door shut with as much frustrated vehemence as Boyd can.

It doesn't happen.

He moves so quietly she doesn't know he's there until he crouches down in front of her and takes her hands, gently pulling them away from her face. The elegant silk bowtie is missing, she realises distantly, and the top couple of buttons of his pristine dress shirt are undone. Better to stare fixedly through the tears at that small area of exposed skin than look up and see the utter confusion she knows will be reflected in his dark eyes.

His voice is soft and low, carefully and calmly pitched somewhere in the deeper registers. "Grace…?"

She shakes her head, incapable of any words. But she tightens her fingers around his in a desperate grip of pure, unadulterated misery. How can he possibly not know…? How on earth can he have absolutely no idea…?

"Oh, Jesus Christ… Grace…" he says quietly, and there's a note she doesn't know cutting hard through his tone. Something that has nothing to do with anger or impatience. Something that's bewildered and wounded, and maybe even a little insecure. He sounds utterly crushed as he eventually asks, "What the fuck did I do wrong this time?"

It's the haunted, resigned note in his voice that finally makes Grace steel herself. She raises her head, looks him in the eye. She does not see a happy man. Not at all. It's the ironic tragedy of the situation that makes her bold enough to free one hand and reach out to stroke his hair. A tiny, compassionate gesture of… what? Grace isn't sure. But perhaps stupidly and misguidedly loving the wretched, challenging man can be utilised as a strength as well as inwardly despised as a foolish weakness? From somewhere she finds some words. They are not the best words, but she means them wholeheartedly. Not removing her hand, she all-but whispers, "Nothing. You've done nothing wrong."

"I don't understand," Boyd says, simply and honestly.

It's a senselessly dangerous thing to do, but Grace lets her fingertips slowly trace down his face from cheekbone to jaw. She thinks she could walk away, turn her back on him for a decade or more and still be able to accurately describe every contour of his face; every line, every tiny imperfection. The smoothness of his skin tells her he's shaved twice that day, morning and evening. It nearly breaks her heart, the way he's been so incredibly meticulous in everything he's done, not missing out a single detail in his determination to give her exactly what he promised – the perfect evening with her closest, dearest friends. She lets a single finger continue to the point of his chin, feeling warm skin give way to the soft bristle of his goatee beard. Boyd doesn't say a word, just watches her with a thousand questions in his eyes.

Letting her hand fall limply away, Grace shakes her head again. "I'm so, so sorry."

"For what?" he asks her. He's so intense, so solemn, and so uncharacteristically patient. Like her, he's taken some brutally hard knocks in the last couple of years, and despite the pain maybe they've helped mellow him, just a little. Or maybe, beneath it all, beneath the irascibility, the brusqueness and the bravado, he always has been a surprisingly gentle and compassionate man. Well, of course he has. Isn't that exactly why she slowly and inevitably fell in love with him in the first place, despite her better judgement?

She's trapped by her own weakness, still firmly caught in the same dilemma she naïvely thought she'd escaped a long time ago. Even now Boyd still can't seem to see the truth of how she feels about him – and she's simultaneously far too proud and far too insecure to baldly confront him with it. Deadlock. It all hurts so damned much and the only thing she can do is continue to endure it as stoically as possible. It's not fair, not at her age. She shouldn't hate him for it, but somewhere deep inside her a tiny part of her does. Not as much as she hates herself. Despises herself. Love and hate, it's all the same in the end – all just worthless passion.

The perfect evening is lying in ruins, and Boyd is still watching her in strained bewilderment. Grace reaches deep into herself, finds some of the fortitude that has always put steel into her soul and she says quietly, "It doesn't matter."

"Grace – "

"It's nothing," she insists, calm and stalwart as she can manage. If he really can't work it out for himself…

Boyd sighs, a heavy, despondent sound, and evidently decides he's fighting a losing battle. He stands up slowly and gazes steadily down at her for a long moment before gruffly asking, "Are you going to be all right?"

"I am," Grace assures him. It's almost certainly a lie, but she even manages to feign a slight smile. "I'm just incredibly tired, Boyd."

"Hm," he says, not sounding remotely convinced, but something about his expression tells Grace she's winning.

She's lucky. She finally manages to persuade him to leave the room just seconds before all the bitter tears start again in earnest.

-oOo-

_cont..._


	4. The Truth Spoken

**4: The Truth Spoken**

Catharsis. A word she has always loved and Boyd has always hated. Grace believes in it in the same way that she believes the sun will rise in the morning, and not simply because she is a psychologist. She believes in it because she has so often experienced its beneficial properties. With no-one present to judge her, she cries without restraint. It helps. The emotional firestorm inexorably breaks her free from both the humiliating grip of self-pity and from the maudlin effects of one or two too many glasses of good wine, and eventually, the majority of the tears shed, she piles up the luxurious pillows on the luxurious bed and she sits in stately solitude quietly and calmly lets her thoughts go where they will.

It's strange, but for a while she dwells not on Boyd and her current situation, but on the earlier years of her life and some of the harshest of the mistakes she made back then. Of course she inevitably thinks of Harry Taylor and perhaps that's what eventually brings her back to Peter Boyd and the present. He might not believe it, but Grace is a realist; she's also not the sort of woman who makes rash decisions. There will be no dramatic gestures, no unwise declarations, no reckless letters of resignation. She will simply do what she's always done – suppress her inconvenient and painful feelings the best way she can and keep moving resolutely forward. She has her health, after all, and the last year has very definitely taught her the huge value of that. She has her health and she has him. Perhaps not quite in the way she wants, but possibly at their time of life it's far more important to cherish a good friend than it is to waste time regretting the lack of a lover.

Friendship, she thinks with renewed determination. Friendship is far more important than the kind of ridiculously immature infatuation far better suited to a girl of sixteen than to an experienced woman already past sixty. Besides, she's increasingly certain that it's only the difficult events of the last few months that have stirred up all her old feelings. The ones that should have stayed dead and buried forever. A little less introspective and considerably more sanguine, Grace does her best to concentrate on appreciating what she _does_ have.

It's a further fifteen minutes or more before Boyd knocks on her door again, and as before he doesn't hang around in the corridor waiting for a reply. He has never been a wallflower. Nor has he ever been a man to mince his words. He strides in with an abrupt bark of, "I'm not playing this fucking stupid game any longer, Grace. Every time I think I finally understand the bloody rules, you change them. Nothing I do is _ever_ good enough for you."

Grace stares at him blankly, bemused by the savagery of the accusation. "What on earth are you talking about, Boyd?"

"I'm talking about _you_," he snaps at her, and she can see his anger visibly increasing, hear it in the rising decibel level of his voice. "I may be a lot of things, but whatever you think, God help me I'm not your fucking lapdog. Just how many times do you think you can get away with turning round and kicking me in the balls just for trying to please you?"

She knows the white heat of his temper well enough to force herself to keep her own voice quiet and level. Tonight is not a good night to be quarrelling with him, not a good night to incite and then attempt to bear the full weight of his rage. It's not cowardice, it's simple self-preservation. She starts, "You – "

"No," Boyd interjects before she can get further words out, and although his voice is suddenly much quieter, the intensity of his anger is more tangible than ever as he bites out, "I'm not taking the blame for tonight's… debacle. All I've done for the last God knows how many months is do my best to look after you. I've tried endlessly to help you, support you and make you happy. But it really doesn't matter, does it? Because this poor deluded fucker is _never_ going to be good enough for the great Doctor Grace Foley, is he? No matter _how_ hard he bloody tries."

He's bristling again, spoiling for a fight, and Grace can see months and months of careful reparations on both sides starting to splinter under the weight of his growing fury. If time and experience have taught her anything, it's that anger always makes Boyd lose perspective; that the angrier he gets the wilder and more unfair his accusations become – and the harder she subsequently bites back at him in brittle defence. It occurs to her that at best they have reached yet another impasse, that they are once again suffering from a critical inability to understand each other. It has ever been so, she thinks grimly. Boyd's uncompromising words seem to echo endlessly in her mind, slowly distilling down into one choice phrase… _Because this poor deluded fucker is _never_ going to be good enough for…_

Grace looks up at him sharply, refuses to be intimidated by his relentless glare and demands, "_What_ did you just say?"

"You heard me," Boyd growls, and she can see the angry tension in him, the naked aggression in his stance. She suspects he's had another drink or two since he left her room the first time, that some of his sudden rage is being fuelled by whiskey. Some, but not all. His fists are tightly balled at his sides. "I'm sick and tired of you moving the damn goalposts and then blaming me. You can be _so_ – "

"Boyd," Grace interrupts him sharply, a strange sort of comprehension beginning to dawn, "what did you say? About you never being good enough…?"

He immediately drops into sullen, defensive mode, still bristling angrily. "Well? It's the bloody truth, Grace. I'm done with – "

Grace cuts him down again, shaking her head in absolute disbelief. "For God's sake… For an apparently intelligent man, sometimes you can be _unbelievably_ stupid."

"Thank you," he retorts, grinding out the words. "Thank you _so_ much for that, Doctor."

"Boyd – "

"No," he raps out again, and somehow – and Grace has no idea how – he manages to rein in his blistering temper enough to simply turn on his heel and stalk haughtily from the room. He isn't particularly gentle with the door, but perhaps in deference to quality of the hotel and the lateness of the hour he doesn't slam it quite as violently behind him as she expects.

-oOo-

Grace allows him five minutes, resolutely counting the long seconds off one by one, and then she calls his mobile phone. She instinctively knows he will answer, simply because answering will be the most infuriating and contrary thing to do. Sure enough, he picks up in just three rings, his tone on the over-controlled side of glacial. "I'm not talking to you."

"Manifestly you are," Grace contradicts, gazing sedately up at the ceiling above the bed.

"Fuck off, Grace," he says curtly, but he doesn't terminate the call. She understands and stolidly refuses to take offence. He isn't swearing at her, he's swearing at the whole sorry situation, at his own angry frustration. She's not the only one who's painfully aware he has significant trouble expressing himself in any vaguely articulate way when he's angry.

Still studying the ceiling, Grace asks quietly, "Do you have an Alexandrian solution, Boyd?"

There's no hesitation. Boyd was a grammar school boy, after all. He doesn't need the reference explained to him. "I have an Alexandrian solution to _everything_. But you always attempt to talk me out of it."

It's true. She instinctively tends to do whatever she can to curb the worst excesses of Boyd's impulsive behaviour. Over the years it's become an unofficial and unspoken but nevertheless highly important part of her role at the CCU – to provide a steady counterbalance to his reckless inclination to just put his head down and charge headlong at the obstacles that so often appear in the unit's path. Now, however, such bullish impetuosity may actually be necessary. Dryly, she says, "Well, we certainly seem to have a Gordian Knot on our hands this time."

"I left my sword at home," he tells her brusquely. But at least he's still on the line, still talking.

"Fair enough." It's time to roll the dice and see where they land, for better or worse. It's either that, or face returning to a dark purgatory of endless pointless fights and misunderstandings. She hasn't got the stomach for it anymore, and perhaps Boyd hasn't, either. Sometimes things can't get any worse. Grace takes the gamble, dangerous though it is. "All right, _I'll_ attempt to cut through the knot if you won't. But first I want you to promise me something."

"Jesus…" Boyd mutters, sounding incredulous. Then, impatiently, "Fine. What?"

"It's very late and I'm very tired. I really can't cope with any more tonight. Promise me that we're done for now. Promise me you won't come storming back in here. Not until the morning, at least."

"What the…?"

"_Promise_ me, Boyd," she insists.

"Fuck's sake, Grace… You're really pushing your luck." The ominous note in his voice is quite clear. But to her surprise he abruptly capitulates. "All right. Go on, then. Give it your best shot."

There's a roiling and a simultaneous tautness in the pit of Grace's stomach that's only matched by the way her head seems to be spinning slightly. Stress, she realises. She maps another square yard of the ceiling with her eyes, bites the metaphorical bullet. She says, "I'm in love with you. I've _always_ been in love with you. Idiot."

The Alexandrian solution – don't attempt to untie the complicated knot. Just decisively slice straight through it.

And without another word she ends the call then and there, immediately switches off her mobile and takes the hotel room's phone off the hook for good measure. But when she locks the door, it's only from habit and the need for general security. There's no point in locking it against Boyd. He will either keep his promise or he won't; and if he doesn't, Grace knows a locked door won't be enough to stop him confronting her.

-oOo-

_cont..._


	5. The Truce Agreed

**5: The Truce Agreed**

She suspects it's only because he is, at heart, a very honourable man, that Boyd keeps his promise. But keep it he does. It takes Grace a long, long time to fall asleep, and when she finally does, she sleeps fitfully, every tiny background noise disturbing her. The dark hours slowly bleed away, though, and the sun inexorably starts to rise in the city sky. When she wakes she's momentarily disorientated, but it only takes a moment for mortifying memories of the previous night to coming flooding back. It's Saturday morning, she's alone in a stupidly expensive London hotel room, and just a few hours ago she made a dramatic and potentially life-changing confession that she'd categorically rather not think about. Though, of course, it's all she _can_ think about. The die is assuredly cast, however. There's nothing she can do now except wait. Grace thinks she will give him an hour, maybe two. And then she will leave the hotel, calmly and quietly, and at least everything between them will finally be clear.

Though she is restless and very far from calm she forces herself to take a long, luxurious bath in the large, extravagant bathroom. She eyes herself derisively in the mirror as she carefully applies her make-up, displeased by the unwelcome truth she sees reflected there. Bombarded on every side by the images and expectations of a society compulsively obsessed with the beauty and perfection of youth it's not easy to accept that perhaps, just perhaps, the heady joys of love and romance are not as far behind her as she previously imagined. Trying to ignore the gathering gloom, she eventually gets dressed in the clothes Eve has thoughtfully provided. She's just carefully packing away her dark blue evening dress from the night before when there's a diffident tap on the door. It surprises her that the knock is so discreet, but all becomes clear when a young and unfamiliar male voice announces, "Room service."

Not Boyd, then. Time's running out. She's not going to be made a fool of. By anyone. Rather too sharply, Grace responds, "Come in."

No need to move to unlock the door – the hotel staff all have their own pass cards, naturally. A slim young man in a pristine uniform steps into the room, pushing a large trolley that appears to be loaded with everything anyone could ever possibly want or need for breakfast. Grace frowns at the extravagant sight, says, "I didn't order breakfast."

"The gentleman in two-two-five requested it, Madam," the young man tells her.

Well, of course he did. Last night, presumably, before everything changed. Somehow Grace manages a polite smile. "I'm afraid my plans have altered somewhat since last night."

The man looks faintly puzzled. "But I spoke to the gentleman myself, Madam, just half an hour ago. He was quite specific."

"_Quite_ specific," a much deeper male voice agrees.

Boyd is standing in the doorway, leaning casually against the doorframe. He's dressed in a pale shirt and a dark blazer, and his hands are buried deep in the pockets of well-cut cavalry twill trousers. A very handsome, very dapper study in complete, easy insouciance; perfectly suited to their elegant surroundings. He nods to the younger man. "Thank you."

The man retreats, tip safely procured, quietly closing the door behind him.

Not yet sure what she's going to say, what there actually is that she_ can s_ay, Grace starts, "Boyd – "

"Breakfast first," he announces gruffly, and it seems he isn't joking. He's well-known as a man with a healthy appetite and there's very little he won't summarily demolish in very short order, despite grumbled complaints when things aren't quite to his taste. Knowing him as well as she does, Grace has always suspected he burns most of it off in nervous energy alone. But his obvious appetite this morning is a good sign. A very good sign, in fact, so Grace cautiously acquiesces and they eat together at the little table by the window, looking out at Park Lane and at Hyde Park stretching beyond it. The underlying tension between them is tangible, but it's far more anticipatory than antagonistic and they are both ostentatiously courteous as they attempt to hold a banal, stilted conversation about utterly pointless things. No reference is made to any part of the preceding night by either of them. Taboo subject. For now.

Boyd is on his second cup of coffee before he finally says, "Come on, then; let's get it over with."

Surprised by his directness, Grace raises her eyebrows at him. "What?"

His ghost of a smile is equable and more than a little rueful. "The ritual humiliation of the apologetic and rather sheepish idiot you see before you."

"Masochism, Boyd?" Grace asks him, automatically gauging his mood before falling back on banter. It's the best safety net they've ever had, after all.

"It's not terribly high on my list of guilty pleasures, to be honest."

Deliberately arch, despite the risk, she asks, "Oh? Would you like to tell me more about this list of yours?"

"Absolutely not," Boyd tells her firmly, and she's almost sure she sees a brief but very wicked glint in his eyes. Straight-faced, he continues, "Some things are _far_ better demonstrated than described, Grace."

For a moment Grace feels as if she's stepped back several years in time. Past the bad times and back to the days when flirtation was a relentless daily bloodsport between them. A dangerous but exciting game that they quite evidently both thoroughly enjoyed. A game that somehow just gradually faded away until it disappeared altogether as the good-natured bickering turned sour and the endless daily spats became openly spiteful fights. But now is not the time to be thinking of those bleak days, not with the promise of something new and much more fulfilling on the horizon. Firmly back in the present, she can't quite stop herself saying mischievously, "Oh?"

To her surprise, Boyd doesn't go straight for the jugular, doesn't capitalise on the deliberate opening she's given him. He simply smiles the artless, gentle smile that's become so very rare in the last few years. It's an extraordinary smile, one she's never quite been able to resist. A smile that completely changes the sombre character of his features and easily reaches his dark eyes, making them far softer than seems possible. Defences clearly deliberately lowered, he suggests, "Truce?"

"Truce," Grace agrees without a single qualm. "But you're still an idiot."

"Maybe so," he says steadily, "but I'm not the only one, am I? And you have even _less_ excuse than I do."

Which – embarrassingly – is almost certainly true. But she's not going to let the mild accusation pass unchallenged. "Why? Because you're a man and you think that gives you some kind of genetic right to be obtuse?"

"No," Boyd counters with an infuriating touch of complacency, "because you're a bloody _psychologist_, Grace. And for all your brains and all your much-vaunted intuition and empathy, you still somehow completely failed to realise that – "

Grace quickly holds up her hands in surrender. "All right, all right. You don't have to enjoy it _quite_ so much, Boyd."

"Oh, I think I do," he says, lazily triumphant.

She refuses to rise to it. Some things never change, and she's fairly sure that the day will never dawn when they don't deliberately needle each other for the pure contrary fun of it. It's just the way they are; he is abrasive and she is sharp. There will always be sparks. He's watching her unusually intently, Grace realises, as if he is waiting for some kind of clear signal from her. Not sure what to say, she tentatively asks, "So… what do you suggest we do now?"

It seems to be enough in the way of encouragement because in return Boyd sighs in a deliberately overdramatic way. "You really are _far_ too fond of unnecessary discussion, Grace. We're in a top-notch hotel, it's Saturday morning and we've finally managed to establish beyond any reasonable doubt that we're madly in love with each other…"

"Are we?" Grace says, amused by his obviously quite deliberate choice of words, but she imagines they both know it's an entirely rhetorical question. Her heart seems to be beating a little too fast, but she rather likes the sensation. Reminds her that she's still alive.

He shrugs. "Well, we're definitely in a hotel and it's definitely Saturday."

The relaxed nonchalance is beautifully played, but she can see the truth in his eyes. Beneath the façade, Boyd is very serious, and she guesses his night was every bit as restless as hers. There's no doubt in her mind that he hasn't given the whole difficult, delicate matter considerable thought. Grace has a brief sense of standing on the dangerous edge of a sweeping precipice before she solemnly offers, "Hat-trick? Three out of three?"

"No question," Boyd agrees, and she knows the moment he gets to his feet that he's going to kiss her. And that she's going to kiss him back with a force and a passion that will undoubtedly surprise him, at least for a moment. Grace isn't really aware of getting up herself, but suddenly there's hardly any space between them, and she's forced to look up just to maintain eye-contact. At such close quarters it's impossible for her not to be keenly aware of just how tall he is, how much bigger than her he is. The frisson of undeniably sensual excitement that runs up and down her spine is suddenly and completely eclipsed by the wonderful and oft-imagined sensation of his hands on her waist and his lips gently finding hers.

In the end, it's all astonishingly easy. If anything at all about it surprises Grace, it's the fact that he's not just gentle, but a gentleman. And somehow it's far more thrilling and far more erotic _not_ to instantly take the most inevitable road, not to plunge straight into a predictable maelstrom of animal heat and desire. The resulting edge of frustration is keen, and she has no doubt Boyd feels it just as painfully as she does, probably more so, but it's a deliberate edge, one of keen anticipation, delicious in its subtle connotations, and she's never been more surprised – or more wildly excited – to find herself not recklessly jumping straight into bed with a man who quite evidently wants her far more than is probably good for either of them.

-oOo-

_cont..._


	6. The Line Broken

**6: The Line Broken**

In their own way, they make a very attractive couple. Grace isn't given to vanity, has always been far too self-aware to imagine she's something she's clearly not, but she grudgingly sees the truth in shop window reflections as they wander idly; sees it in the brief glances of the people that pass them by. It's slightly uncomfortable, doesn't sit well with her quiet disdain for anyone who is superficial enough to judge anything on looks alone, but nevertheless it's good for her; helps boost an ego that has been thoroughly battered throughout the extensive rigours of illness and treatment. Just as it is good for her to adjust slowly and cautiously into the terrifying, wonderful idea that the tall, good-looking man pacing loyally beside her is no longer simply on temporary loan. Grace has become quite used to viewing him as far more than just a colleague, has become used to counting on his presence as a personal friend and occasional convenient escort, but this… this is very different. In the space of just a few hours Boyd has tacitly and quite intentionally granted her the kind of territorial rights she never expected to possess, and she unselfconsciously delights in exercising them. _Look at him,_ she wants to say to the whole city as she firmly holds onto his arm, _look at this astonishing, extraordinary man who chooses to belong to me…_

After some mild debate they settle on a light lunch at a modest little bistro with tables arranged out on the pavement. Naturally they duly bicker over who subsequently pays the bill, but the pointed words they exchange over the matter are quickly forgotten when they remember how and why this day is so different from each and every other day they've shared over the years. There's a strong sense that while wandering aimlessly they are warily trying to find the edges of each other, that they are carefully laying an entirely new foundation to their long relationship, one on which they can build afresh. Still, Grace is captivated by every tiny shared experience, no matter how trivial or how mundane, and when Boyd kisses her and her heart instantly races she wryly mocks herself for all of it. Age and experience, it seems, are no defence at all against the first heady, foolhardy moments of a brand new love affair. There's something unusually quiet, self-deprecatory and deeply wry in him, too, as if he silently recognises exactly the same folly in himself, and that utterly charms her, too.

Boyd's phone rings periodically as the gently surreal day draws on, and he takes every call immediately, effortlessly switching roles to become whatever is needed of him. Watching the way he does it Grace begins to understand better than ever before how he consciously lives his life in neatly constructed and regimented compartments. It's not a bad thing, she realises. In fact, it may very well prove to be a good thing, particularly if she can learn to at least partially emulate him in the efficient way he seems to be able to isolate each different part of his life from all the others as necessary. It's not her way, but she starts to realise how well it serves him. He's unquestionably hers as they amble together, an amenable companion entirely at her disposal, but he holds a warrant card which could change that in an instant – and it doesn't occur to her to imagine things could ever be otherwise.

The final call comes at a little after four o'clock in the afternoon, just as they are walking beside the Serpentine, and Grace knows just from the sudden intensity of his expression that Boyd is leaving even before he curtly tells the caller that he's on his way. It doesn't sting, doesn't even grate. It's just the way things are, the way she knows they have to be. Penalty of the job they do. The job they both love.

"Where?" Grace asks him simply as he puts his phone away.

"Dalston. Unidentified human remains."

"Cold case?"

Boyd nods, his eyes intently searching hers as he says, "Apparently so."

He needs some sign of acquiescence from her, she realises; not submission, but acceptance. Something to reassure him that they are not making a terrible mistake; something to help convince him that somehow they can find a way to successfully co-exist in two completely different worlds – the personal and the professional. Something in him has changed, she realises. The nonchalance and the self-effacing charm have disappeared, replaced by a tense, impatient keenness far more indicative of the tough, successful man she's worked alongside for years. Calmly, she asks, "Want me to come with you?"

It seems to be sufficient as a signal that she understands because Boyd offers a slightly rueful smile and shakes his head. "Waste of time at this stage. Eve's already on her way to the scene. I need to go and pick my car up from the office. I'll walk you back to the hotel and take a cab from there."

-oOo-

Throughout the years Grace has visited his house dozens of times. She knows the smooth stone steps up to the big front door. Knows the long, wide hallway and the unnaturally clean and tidy kitchen just as well as she knows the comfortable sofa and the big windows in the living room. But this is the first time she's been in possession of the keys to Peter Boyd's castle; the first time she's been responsible for entering the alarm code that renders the house harmless to invaders. It's also the first time she's been so intensely aware of the stillness, of the hollow quiet. This is a family house without a family, and for a moment she fancies she can feel the mournful ghosts of the past standing with her. She wonders if they – the lost family – used to light a fire in the now-empty fireplace at Christmas. She wonders whether they used to eat meals together at the big dining table, laughing and joking like any other ordinary family. She wonders if the house remembers a happy, laughing child who grew into a sullen, rebellious teenager.

Grace shakes the imaginary phantoms away, focuses firmly on the present, on the briefcase sitting on that self-same dining table, on the untidy piles of official paperwork covering the coffee table; on the long dark top coat carelessly thrown over the arm of the sofa. There are unopened utility bills on the mantelpiece, weighted down by a mug of cold coffee that will never be finished. This is Boyd's lair, an eerie window into the solitary everyday life he lives beyond work and beyond her, and it's terribly tempting to explore it further – but Grace already knows she won't. It would be an unconscionable invasion of his privacy. So she leaves their luggage, such as it is, in the hallway and waits for him only in the familiar spaces where she feels comfortable. The staircase remains an unbroken boundary she won't cross on her own. She makes coffee for herself, flicks through the previous day's newspaper and watches the shadows in the unkempt back garden lengthen.

Sooner than she expects she hears a car slowing outside in the quiet residential street. She reaches the front window just as the dark Audi rolls sedately onto the drive and she watches Boyd all the way to the foot of the steps. He looks a little preoccupied, but otherwise little different from the man she unexpectedly shared breakfast with so many hours before. He obviously has a spare key, because he's through the front door before Grace reaches the hall. The potentially awkward moment disappears instantly as he simply smiles in greeting and asks, "Okay?"

"Fine," she tells him. "So, do we have a new case?"

A slight shrug. "Maybe. I'll make up my mind once we get the forensics and the Coroner's report. Eve thinks the bones belong to more than one individual, but her gut instinct is that we're looking at medieval remains. There was a big leper hospital in Dalston, apparently. The way things are at the moment, I'm hesitant to go ahead and commit the unit to something that might very well turn out to be just an unfortunate legacy of the Dark Ages."

"That's a little harsh," Grace comments.

Boyd shoots her an appraising sort of look. "Next time you're bored, remind me to introduce you to the harsh fiscal realities of my budget. Do you know how much a single CCU investigation costs on average?"

"No, but I know how much you hate signing my expenses at the end of every month."

"You cost me more than all the others put together, you know that, don't you? I break out in a cold sweat every time I see one of those neatly-annotated expense sheets turn up in my in-tray. You should write fiction instead of those damned psychology books of yours."

She smirks. "I don't need to fiddle my expenses. One simply has to pay for quality, Boyd; it's an immutable fact of life. Besides, it's not coming out of your pocket, is it?"

He catches hold of her waist, draws her against him and looks down at her to complain, "I didn't have a single grey hair until I met you, you know."

"You're such an outrageous liar," she tells him and she isn't at all surprised that his answer is to kiss her. She decides she approves of his newly-devised strategy for silencing her, particularly since it still seems to allow her to have the very last word.

It's easy, the pattern they fall so naturally into. Wonderfully easy, because there's nothing at all awkward in the way that the friendly, civilised evening meal that they somehow manage to create between them slowly but inexorably becomes something so deeply flirtatious that it's edging relentlessly towards the blatantly erotic. It's closely followed by wine and shadows, and gentle, risqué banter; by teasing kisses, and long-forbidden touches that linger. Maybe the first hint of moonlight through the big windows changes them both into something altogether more predatory, because it's soon obvious that neither of them is afraid to challenge for leadership of the sensual, inevitable dance.

That they're good together becomes very clear very quickly. Boyd is far more intuitive than Grace expects, and she can see just from the startled delight in his eyes that she's far bolder than _he_ expects. Together they have a wealth of wisdom and experience, and it blends effortlessly into the more primitive, instinctive desire that's abruptly driving them both. Grace doesn't think they'll make it to the bedroom, and they don't. It's far from a fairy-tale, that first reckless encounter, because there's the inevitable clumsiness of new lovers, and there's age, impetuosity and imperfection. But it doesn't matter at all because there's also heat, sensuality and passion; intense mutual attraction. It's natural, unrehearsed and real, and when Boyd, the breaking sweat on his chest and shoulders gleaming dully in the moonlight, instinctively throws his head back as he fights for control, Grace doesn't think she's ever seen anything quite so glorious.

He breaks, she breaks, and the last vestige of any line between them breaks. And everything is suddenly the way it should always have been.

-oOo-

_cont..._


	7. The Future Decided

**7: The Future Decided**

Morning brings a touch of reality. The reality of waking to mildly aching limbs, suspiciously tender places and the harsh rasp of stubble against her cheek when Boyd kisses her. But Grace savours it all, just as she savours the decadently large and comfortable bed that cannot possibly belong to him, but self-evidently does. She absorbs every tiny detail as she quietly delights in the smooth warmth of his skin, in the way he holds her gently but with a very real sense of entitlement. The thought may be rather unpalatable for a woman of her education and professional standing, but she's fairly certain that in some residual caveman area of his brain she has been firmly added to his inventory of personal possessions. Which she won't hesitate to tear him into small and bloody pieces for if she ever suspects it's becoming in any way a conscious thought.

For a long time they lie lazily together, sometimes partially entwined, sometimes not, but both thoroughly disinclined to rush into the day ahead. Idly exploring the contours of his bare chest with just the tips of her fingers, Grace notices Boyd is watching her in a thoughtful, absorbed sort of way, one arm resting behind his head, the other draped languidly around her shoulders. There's something about the quiet intensity of his gaze that makes her smile slightly and ask, "What…?"

She expects cheeky innuendo at the very least. She does not expect him to solemnly say, "It works, doesn't it? You and me? It shouldn't, but it does."

He's right. No doubt about it. Against all the odds, on the most fundamental level, where it really matters, it works. They are so very different in so many ways, and she suspects it's inevitable that they will continue to clash over all the things – great and small – that they somehow can't manage to compromise on, but there's something, some kind of basic chemistry between them, maybe, that's immutable and complementary. Grace nods, agrees softly, "It does."

"Hmm," Boyd says, and then something mischievous flares fleetingly in his dark eyes. "I suppose I should just give in and marry you. Save us both a lot of trouble in the long-run."

Grace can't help chuckling, both at his easy impudence and at the very idea. "Trust me, Boyd, hell will freeze over first."

"I'm serious," he says, and she thinks perhaps he genuinely believes he is – just for that one tiny moment. But she knows him far too well to be worried. Besides, it isn't only Boyd who's something of a free spirit, and she's always been far more liberal and unconventional than he will ever be. He may be impulsive, given to doing things entirely on a whim, but marriage… is not an option. Never will be, as far as Grace is concerned. She simply can't picture that kind of traditional domesticity ever existing between them. Can't imagine ever wanting it even if she could.

She shakes her head, not remotely troubled. "No you're not, and if even you were, that's probably the worst marriage proposal ever."

He immediately feigns hurt. "Are you turning me down, Grace?"

"Boyd, if you think – " she starts, still chuckling over the absurdity of the notion.

"_Peter_," he interrupts, and suddenly there's an easy serenity about him that's extremely unusual. "My name is Peter."

"Yes," Grace says, a quite deliberate note of patience in her voice, "I'm well aware of that. I have known you for the better part of a decade, remember?"

Boyd rolls over onto his side, head propped up on one hand as he gazes sedately at her. "And there's nothing left that you don't know about me. Apart from my all-consuming passion for fly fishing and the fact that when I was a kid I desperately wanted to be a fighter pilot. And the fly fishing bit's a barefaced lie, obviously."

"No other dark secrets I should know about?" Grace asks, tracing a single fingertip slowly down over his solar plexus towards the faded scars on his stomach, the brutal legacy of the terrifying day when all she could do was watch helplessly as he was stabbed not just once, but twice. She doesn't miss the way his pupils dilate a fraction in response to the light touch.

The reply is artless and relaxed, however, belying the look in his eyes. "I don't think so. Opera and ballet bore me to tears, I have a bit of a thing for feisty women, and if I drink too much champagne I tend to fall over. Which can be extremely embarrassing at weddings. Oh, and there may be a couple of girlie magazines in my sock drawer."

Grace laughs. She doesn't feel a single twinge of self-consciousness as she instructs, "Now tell me you love me."

The response is laconic. "Why? You know damn well I do."

"Peter."

Boyd sighs heavily, pointedly. "Of _course_ I bloody love you."

Despite the flush of warmth and affection his gruff answering words cause, the temptation to tease him is far, far too great. "Well done. There, that didn't hurt too much, did it?"

He grins and as he sits up and runs his fingers through his tousled silver hair the suddenly boyish expression knocks years off him. "Are you proud of me, Doctor?"

-oOo-

Nobly making the effort to finally leave the house, they go for an early-afternoon walk together in Greenwich Park, skirting Flamsteed House and idly sauntering arm-in-arm across the grass. There's nothing extraordinary about it, it's simply enjoyable and companionable. Sometimes they stop to look at something one or other of them points out, and sometimes they just stop to look at each other in an amused, conspiratorial sort of way. More often than not they share a quick, harmless embrace before moving on – enough to maintain the newfound strong sense of intimacy but not enough to frighten the general public. Grace doubts anyone actually notices them as they wander without any real direction; they're just another anonymous late middle-aged couple quietly strolling in the sunshine, probably married for years with several children and grandchildren to their name. Appearances can be – often _are_ – deceptive.

They are sitting on a wooden bench together indolently people-watching when Boyd abruptly says, "So, come on, then. You're the one with all the brains. Where do we go from here?"

Grace glances at him, but he's determinedly staring off into the distance. The strong profile is distinctive; incredibly familiar and yet strangely novel, as if she is studying him with completely fresh eyes. Carefully, she says, "I'm assuming you're talking about professionally, and the fact that somehow we have to look each other in the eye at work tomorrow?"

"Pretty much."

It's no surprise, and she already has an answer. "It's not going to be an issue, surely? We're hardly love-struck teenagers and neither of us is unprofessional enough to cross any boundaries we shouldn't during working hours."

Boyd's response is dry. "There are people at the Yard who might not view things quite the same way."

She snorts. "There are people at the Yard who've been convinced for years that we've been up to no good together since the very first day we met. It's never bothered you before."

"Doesn't bother me now," he says with a casual shrug. He rubs his closely-trimmed beard thoughtfully for a moment. "But I do think a degree of… circumspection… might be in order."

"Won't make any difference," Grace points out. At the askance glance he gives her in response, she continues, "Come on, Boyd, we don't exactly work in an ordinary office, do we? Our colleagues are all highly-trained investigators. If they couldn't put two and two together and successfully come up with four... Besides, they know both of us very well indeed."

"Too well," he grumbles. Deeply sullen, he adds, "I'm just not up for making a general bloody announcement in the morning team meeting, that's all."

Grace understands his reticence but she's already come to some conclusions of her own about the matter. "Did I suggest for one moment that you should? Peter, I'm in my sixties and you're not that far behind me. I think we're both a little long in the tooth to start creeping around trying to do the whole 'clandestine affair' thing, don't you? Office romances are a simple fact of life everywhere whether the powers that be like it or not. As long as our professional integrity can't be called into question, people will just have to learn to deal with it."

"You know what," Boyd declares abruptly after a moment or two of heavy silence, "you're absolutely right."

"I usually am," she says wryly.

He grins at her, suddenly boisterously cheerful again. "Fuck 'em all, eh, Grace?"

There's something about his irrepressible, adolescent defiance that makes her smile. Always has, always will. "I wouldn't have chosen those exact words, personally, but essentially… yes. Fuck 'em all."

Boyd nudges her gently with his shoulder. "God, I love it when you talk dirty."

Grace laughs softly, thoroughly enchanted by the whole absurd, wonderful situation. So much heartache, so much suppressed longing, all painlessly erased in less time than it usually takes them to resolve a single pointless argument. The lingering pain of years of resentment and twisting frustration neatly excised in the space of a single weekend. Boyd is smiling at her, slightly bemused, a touch quizzical, as if he still doesn't really grasp just how long she's waited for him to understand what she's known for years – that they're the best and worst people in the world for each other and yet, despite everything, they definitely belong together. She stands up quite suddenly. "If we do this, Peter – "

"'_If'_…?" he interrupts sardonically, eyebrows raised.

She ignores him. " – then we do it quite openly. If the question's ever asked – by _anyone_ – then we answer it honestly. This is _not_ going to be a guilty secret kept firmly behind closed doors, something that we think we should be vaguely ashamed of and feel compelled to lie about for professional reasons."

Boyd looks vaguely impressed, as if he didn't expect such a fierce show of spirit. He gets to his feet. "And to hell with the consequences?"

"What consequences?" Grace demands. "I'm not a police officer and you're not my boss."

"Actually…"

She glares up at him. "Semantics, Boyd. The Home Office pays my salary."

"Yes, Grace."

She knows that infuriating tone. Too well. "Now you're just humouring me, aren't you?"

The wicked grin that always seems to spell trouble and chaos breaks through again. "Yes, Grace."

With superb and conscious irony given how close to retirement they're both inevitably getting and the largely inconsequential difference in age between them, she slowly and deliberately shakes her head and warns, "Just you _wait_ until I get you home, young man."

Exactly as anticipated, Boyd looks considerably more intrigued than intimidated by the implied threat. And as Grace starts to walk in the general direction of the road and therefore his house, he swiftly falls into step with her without a single word. Smiling to herself, she hooks her arm comfortably through his. In the space of just a couple of days their world has changed irrevocably and they both know it. She's glad. She's waited a long time for it. All of it.

_- the end -_


End file.
